Stone's Fall

'Hard. It's not as if they advertise themselves. But there can't be many of them. Most are Lithuanian or Latvian, most would be executed or imprisoned if they went home. They hate Russia and all things Russian. And everyone else. They seem to have money. Presumably from robberies. More than that, I cannot tell you. I don't know. They are not interested in listening to speeches or theoretical discourses. They think that is bourgeois. They think violent action is the only true revolutionary activity. I think that if they could, they would happily murder Kropotkin as well as any other Russian.'

'What is all this to you, Stefan?' I asked. I was genuinely curious. 'Why are you part of all this rigmarole?'

He frowned as he turned to look at me. 'I'm Jewish and I'm Polish,' he said. 'Why do I need to say any more? I do not wish to kill anyone, Matthew. I want to set the world free, so mankind can realise its full potential and live in harmony. An aspiration you no doubt think is foolish, naïve and absurd.'

I shrugged. 'As aspirations go it is not a bad one. I am merely sceptical about its chances of success.'

'You are not alone. But compromise . . .' Here he turned with a smile playing over his mouth, which made quite a change. He had a pleasant smile. He really should have used it more often. 'Compromise is a weapon of oppression wielded by capitalists to ensure nothing ever changes.'

'Of course it is,' I said heartily. 'Damn good thing too.'

He grinned. 'And now we understand each other. I'm glad. I've always appreciated your efforts to be kind. Do not think I was unreceptive. But I grew up in a world of suspicion and it is not a habit I can abandon easily. You are a good man. For a lackey of the system.'

'I will take that as a compliment,' I said. 'And I in turn appreciate your willingness to talk to me. I will use the information – cautiously, shall we say. And one day I will give you a proper explanation.'

He nodded. 'If you know what is good for you, you'll steer clear of Jan the Builder and anyone associated with him.'

'We're old drinking mates,' I said.

'And whatever you do, don't start making eyes at Jenny Mannheim. She'd eat you for breakfast and pick her teeth with your bones.'

He nodded, and strode off to his work, leaving me pondering his last words. They had brought me back to the subject of my obsession.

I had forgotten about her for the time I was talking to him. Now she came flooding back to my mind. An associate of Jan the Builder. I had information, but no understanding. In fact, I was worse off than before. Every time I added a nugget of information to my paltry hoard, it made the rest seem the more confusing. So I now knew more about this band of anarchists; knew a small amount more about this woman I had encountered the previous day. But I still knew nothing about their connection with Ravenscliff. What was more I did not care; my obsession with Elizabeth had grown to the point that it was almost uncontrollable. I agonised over whether I would go and see her, as I had been asked to do.

I knew I would, sooner or later. I knew I would not be able to keep away. But I put up a fight. I did not embrace my fate eagerly or without resistance. Even as my feet took me down Fleet Street, past Charing Cross, up Haymarket and to Piccadilly Circus, I told myself I had not made up my mind. I could, at any moment, hop on to a bus and go home. I had free will. I would decide, in my own good time. I went through all the reasons for treating her command with the disdain it deserved, and they were overwhelming. Went through all the reasons for obeying her, and they were paltry. And still I walked on, hands in pockets, eyes looking down at the pavement, getting ever closer, with each step, to St James's Square.

I still told myself that I had not yet made up my mind as I stood on the doorstep, and as I rang the bell. And it was true. I had decided nothing. The only decision I could take was to walk in the other direction; indecision made me sleepwalk towards her, go through the door when it was opened by the housemaid, climb up the stairs to the little sitting room where she was waiting for me. Had my heart given way then, I would not have been surprised, and might not have been ungrateful. But it did not; and I walked in to see her sitting on the settee by the fire, a book on her lap, looking at me gravely. And I felt that familiar flood of emotion coursing through my being, as I knew that I was back, exactly where I needed to be.

'Sit down, Matthew,' she said softly, gesturing to the place beside her. With an immense effort of will, I sat in the armchair opposite, so I would not have to suffer her perfume, the sound of her clothes as she moved or the feeling that, with the slightest gesture, I could reach out and touch her. I was safe, immune there. She noticed, of course, and knew why I had done it: it was a gesture of weakness, not of defiance; she understood it all.